Speed Generation

High-octane living. That is what we’re about now. No more Turn On/Tune In/Drop Out, no more experimental Kool-Aid-Cheerios-Converse-Pop-Rocks-Freeform-Do-What-Feels-Good-Me-Decade or Voodoo Economics or Roaring Flappers or Over There. This is the Speed Generation – the ultra-caffeine, triple-shot of espresso, double-frappuccino, long-lasting, nighttime-crushing, dawn-stealing, success-driving, ball-busting sprint for sprint’s sake. Higher workforce, focused producers, motivated consumers, and multi-tasking marauders fueled on the best stuff science can cook.

Stimuli.

Yeah.

I’m into big-time energy: Rocket blaster sort of eye-twitching, teeth-grinding, hand-shaking, blood-thinning, heart-pounding speed. I’m speeding right now. Can’t you tell? Can’t you tell? Jesus, man, catch up. Fast. That’s how I ride. Not ride. Cruise. Not cruise. Burn. I burn. Burning. Racing. Grabbing mine. Grabbing before the other guy grabs. Grab. Grab. Grab. No more lagging. No more lollygagging. No more sitting around watching the wheels and smelling the goddamn roses, bitch! Quickness is in. Quickness and bulk.

We are a nation of fat people who move! Heart-taxing, fast food chompers who double as world-class speed freaks. We eat fast and we work fast and we play hard, really hard – all-night-fucking-long kinda hard. The heart MUST deal. Stop us. I dare you. Stop us.

Death Race 2006.

Bitch.

Give us something that picks us up, gets us going, rides the lightning, brings the pain IS IT IN YOU?

I have a necklace sponge drenched with some Asian shit call XanGo. They tell me it’s pure gelatinized equine adrenaline glands. I suck on it hourly all day long. It’s a kick, let me tell you, like electroshock therapy without the odious ember scents.

It’s in me, big time. All at once: Red Bull, Venom, Adrenaline Rush, 180, ISO Sprint, and Whoopass. Gallons of Whoopass, chased with Mountain Dew Amp. I dig on an absinthe smoothie laced with Kabbalah and Steven Seagal’s Lightening Bolt. Last week I soaked a headband in a liquid concoction called Tunguska Blast, but made the crucial mistake of boiling Cherry Charge and spiking it with something Anheuser Busch is calling “Energy Beer”. Unfortunately I was forced to throw up for six hours straight. I’ll tell you though, dehydration is a wicked rush.

Hey, I’m like you. I started off with a pedestrian amount of coffee, some Dunkin’ Donuts, some Soy Lattes at Starbucks. Recreational usage. Occasional weekend warrior. I used to think that gave me the shakes, spiced up my REM sleep. Then I did some Red Bull and gin, and then vodka, and tequila, whatever. Better, but not best. Until nothing could sustain anymore. Endurance. That’s the ticket. You MUST ride, man. So it was onto dangerous mixtures of questionably legal cocktails for me, until face it, I’m a human chemical spill – like Barry fuckin’ Bonds, without all the nasty head growth. Strong. Stronger. Strongest.

I have a necklace sponge drenched with some Asian shit call XanGo. They tell me it’s pure gelatinized equine adrenaline glands. I suck on it hourly all day long. It’s a kick, let me tell you, like electroshock therapy without the odious ember scents.

I also make it a point to bathe in Hansen Purified Energy Water. I rub it on my genitals all the time. Try it. I dare you.

You ever spread pure authentic South African Hoodia Gordonii all over a raw steak, then throw it in a blender at high speeds and suck it through a straw? Energy drink? It’s Energy Squared with a protein infusion that causes your brain to bend slightly off kilter. Tibetan monks call this state “living in the in-between.” I call it morning. The resultant effect is that of hugging a torturous mountain turn on a badly tuned motorcycle with bald tires at 100 MPH. Now you have some idea of what kind of kick 130-proof Hoodia can offer your nervous system.

Now we’re talking.

I can write 10,000 words in 40 minutes on Bally Blast sports energy shakes, although this stuff gets right on top of me. I’m not sure if I’m writing or taking dictation from The Voices. Flowing along swimmingly, pounding out the good stuff, and the next thing you know I’m spitting out guttural brays like a wounded kookaburra, a haunting sound at 2 am for any adult human to make. Have you ever heard that kind of noise and expect to just roll over and go back to sleep? Not with a head full of liquid crank and a weak grip on the senses. It’s a little scary, like force-feeding a kindergarten class PCP. It’s a serious shock for sure, but a welcomed shock nonetheless.

Of course none of the work is coherent or usable, but much of it ends up in this space. Sorry. No time to edit. No time at all. Let those paid for that kind of patience take care of it. Rearview mirrors are for suckers, rearview mirrors and brakes.